Heaven's Got a Plan Yet
by Neocolai
Summary: A jaded Air Force veteran stumbles on a home invasion, discovering a body, a survivor, and a new perspective. (Outsider POV, shameless Steve!Whump)


**First and Foremost, let me explain very clearly that I will probably cause some offense with this story in regards to the medical care field, for two reasons:**

**A) I'm not a doctor, so pardon my googled, imaginary care map. (Kids, please do not try this at home. I will probably find a neat list of proper procedures listed in the review section one of these days.)**

**B) I had a very unfortunate experience of being a caregiver in a good care facility with some bad staff, which tends to jade one's opinion of their own calling. To those amazing doctors, nurses, and caregivers who give it their all, and to those who have experienced exceptional care, please forgive any offense in this story. The negative aspects in the main character's thought process reflect on realistic scenarios that took place in my own experience, where the goodness of a wonderful care facility was still tainted because there were those few who stopped bothering to care. This is not how medical and care centers are supposed to work, and this is not a reflection on the extraordinary attitudes of those people who get out early and back late every day, who come in on their day off, who run their feet off answering call lights for twelve hours at a time and still force a cheerful smile, who stay past their shift because there's no one else to take their place, and who answer to families and friends and attorneys and try to hold up under the pressure of not having enough help to make everything exactly as it should be. **

**To those who give it their all, who are underappreciated and wonder if it ever makes a difference, the best aspects in this story are written in honor of you. Every hand held, ever smile shared, every kind word, every patient and calm response brings light to a hopeless situation. You'll never know how much you touched a life, but that moment of gentleness in the highest point of despair will be treasured forever.**

**(Okay, I'm gonna go hide in my blanket fort now, just send marshmallows if there be flames.)**

**I suppose that I should also mention that I do not own Hawaii Five-0 or anything related, which is probably a good thing, or Steve would never get an episode outside of the ICU. Poor Steve. :/**

**-First H50 fic, thoughts are appreciated!-**

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He didn't do house calls.

Nicholas J. Valken, former wing sergeant and surgical attendant, uncle to six brats, keeper of small kittens, was permanently retired. Technically. He still worked nights a caregiver at the OR, mostly to keep the strays around his front porch happy, and also to convince his sister that he wasn't readily available for her uncontrollable heathens. It was basic work; fresh towels passed in the dark, cath bags switched out and outputs recorded, linen swaps and bed baths and vital checks for patients who couldn't see past the haze capturing their mind. Honorable treatment for those who couldn't respond to mental stimuli. Once upon a time Nick himself had declared such caregiving as the most rewarding and underappreciated task. That was before he was shucked down to the job himself, on paltry excuses that thinly veiled the implication, "You're the last thing the patients want to see."

Not that physical appearances should have interfered with his line of employment. There were a few silver feathers in his mane, but he was spry enough yet. He could line a neat row of stitches down the sleeve of his favorite coat, and a sturdy pair of corrective lenses had amended the blurred vision quite adequately. He'd even grown his hair out to cover the worst of the bald patches. Scars would fade in time.

Apparently reputations could vanish in an instant.

Stretching his right arm with a grimace, Nick sighed and flexed fingers that were pockmarked and ridged with hardened, pink scar tissue. Two years since his plane went down. He'd been lucky to bail with a charred sleeve and a broken shoulder. Not so lucky that he was the only excuse for an M.D. at the time. Three weeks in hostile territory and a soaring fever, and they'd passed him off with an honorable discharge and pitiable apologies. "You're damaged," chivalrous words implied. The head physician had told it to him plainly on the first day of orientation: "The mask can't hide everything. We don't want to scare the kids."

Oh, he could keep tabs on the comatose patients, change IV's and chart vital signs. Nights kept him out of everyone's hair. A progressive degree in medical science, though? That had been put on hold. Permanently. Even therapy was on the "Please Don't Show" list. There was no career for a local island banshee.

"You've got fifty acres," one of his old wing buddies had suggested during a bar rant. "Why don't you farm like your old man? You could raise horses and give the kiddies rides."

Balderdash. He could do more. He could tell the difference between a strained muscle or ligament just by the feel of the joint. He could stop an arterial bleed quicker than some nurses could manage a bloody nose. Or give him a plane and a shotgun and he'd chow through enemy territory as thick as the blasted fields his old man left behind.

Well, he'd been saying as much for nearly six months. Now here he was, driving sixty miles into town for kitty chow. What an encore for a sergeant with three tours under his belt. He could've been schooling zoomies in deck-scrubbing and chute patrols, and instead he got wised up and decided to tackle one more tactical hazard. Small miracle karma caught up and sent him rocketing down a dirt road at a lousy thirty-five miles an hour in a rusty grey pickup.

Speaking of roads and ill turns of luck, someone else had been kicked in the keister by Lady Fate this morning, and the red muck congealing near the sun-crisped dome was fresh.

"Eugh," Nick uttered, mangling the sound around gritted whites. Out of civic duty he stopped the car, whacking the temperamental beast on the hood as he climbed out. Dadgummed thing better start up again.

"What ate you?" he mused, noting the jowel marks even as he approached the body. Ugh, fetid, smelly, and swelled in the sun. Two hours dead at least, and the carnivorous critter who'd done the job hadn't even stuck around for lunch.

"Canine or coyote, and the wildlife's too smart for the likes of that iron," Nick acknowledged, toeing the man's empty holster. "So you're what... forty-odd, used to threatening off your duff, only someone got nasty and made you show up in person. Now who hates anyone enough to send in little ol' meat hands with his flabby paws and puffed neck? Shaw, you dirtied your knuckles, too. Ain't that powder keg of yours supposed to take care'a that?"

Possibly the powder keg didn't stand a chance, given the bruising in the mug's wrist. That was no lucky high-fi; articulation like that took training. Someone made a point of rehearsing kung fu on a tropical island.

"Could'a been a run-o-the-mill holdup, only the local tai-kwando stole your gun," Nick hazarded a guess. "Then he sent his pooch after you. Not afore he knocked out half your teeth, of course... and dislocated your gunner."

He wasn't sure who was more impressive; the vic' with the quick punches and hard knuckles, or the goon who took a knock to the wing and still bloodied his shabby hand before the local guard dog punctured his posterior.

"Right hamstring's trailing," Nick commented, screwing up his nose at the grisly scraps of flesh. "You were sure hurtin' afore you face-plastered. Question is, did the other guy get off as easy?"

Well, he wasn't a cop, and he wasn't about to leave a corpse to sweeten in the sun. Besides, with one bruiser lying in the fly field, another one was probably waiting to be buried. Nick didn't know nothing about crime scenes or motives for murder, but any grunt could follow a blood trail. Chew toy would've had to hop, hobble, and drag himself away from Snoops, which meant that the scene of disaster couldn't be that far behind.

He covered the woefully departed with a tarp and dragged it into the shade, pausing long enough to grab his Pa's rifle and his day pack from the truck. Leaving his rattle trap where the felony finaglers could analyze it as they willed, he set off into the brush where dots of rust speckled a beaten, sandy path. This was getting into hometown territory. Civilians bunked out here. Bad neighborhood for a thug to be haggling for petty cash.

"But where's the coppers?" Nick wondered aloud. So maybe he was up early - it was his day off - but law folk were supposed to rabble about in all hours of the rotation. Now a blazing afternoon with fat, dozing mosquitoes and no pesky neighbors calling in a disturbance? Either the vic' had his own oasis of isolation or someone had staked him out. Nobody searched a guy's deck if he was expected to stay at home. Alone, with only a slobbery flea carpet for company.

Idly Nick pulled out his phone, clicking off the numbers. Ah. He'd forgotten to renew the month's service last week. All the better to avoid the blood inherent yammering about child-induced insanity. (Then again, maybe that's why the snotheads hadn't grudgingly towed him into an emergency shift.) Not the best tactic for calling in an impromptu murder.

"Kay, so it's just me," he murmured, pulling back the rifle's safety. Lodging meant landlines, so if he found the nosebleeder he'd find a phone. Easy fix.

Taking into account that there was a mangy, slavering dog on the loose.

"Sorry if I shot your paper shredder," Nick morbidly rehearsed. "If that harpy who claims blood relations has her way you'll find pups on my farm next summer, so feel free to take your pick of the brood. Actually, take'em all; she'll just have another excuse to vex me with her underlings, and besides, they'll run off the tomcats."

His rambling trailed off as he stepped out of the shade and onto crushed, browning grass. Large patches of thick goup had crusted on the lawn, piling in clumps like a macabre halloween set.

"Oh sheist, I need backup," Nick whispered. He raised the rifle to eye level, edging warily towards the screen door painted with brown, finger-long streaks. Someone had left in a hurry. Someone who had probably been chased down by...

Hinges snapped and Nick stumbled back, warbling a sound distinctly opposite to a shrieking six-year-old as a flurry of gold and brown barreled past the swaying door. _Mother mayhem it's huge and it'll tear your throat out next you idjit!_

Bracing the rifle before him, he lunged forward and snarled, baring pockmarked lips and gleaming white teeth. The beast darted in challenge, deep-throated belts of sound vibrating in its bloody chest. It skittered, one foreleg trailing as crimson leaked from a bloody hole. Tawny flanks heaved and shivered, while stiff pants testified that the breaking point was but a few lopes away.

"Aw, c'mon!" Nick exclaimed as he dropped his rifle to his side. "Your bleedin' to death, varmint! You gonna stand me off till you keel over, or you gonna quit it afore you turn over your nose? I ain't above shooting a dog, but I also ain't keen to see my ballistics vying with the ones belonging to road mulch!"

Perhaps words or common sense had permeated the lap loafer's mind. Or perhaps blood loss and rickets had finally caught up to the poor beast, for it fairly flopped, tottering on three legs, whimpering in anticipation of pain. Sighing, Nick slowly slung off his pack, rummaging in the front pocket until he found the cold barbecue he'd been saving for lunch.

"Here, varmint," he grunted, tossing a chuck to the beast and spreading his now empty, tacky hand. "It's not poisoned; I treat my cats better than that."

A woebegotten sniff and a cringe told him that his offering was not accepted. The dog didn't growl when he drew back his hand, however.

"Okay," Nick whispered, shouldering his rifle and easing carefully to his feet. "Nice, gentle words. Don't upset the good doggie. I'm just gonna check the house, okay? Ain't nobody gonna get hurt."

Any other guard dog, and he'd a'had his throat torn out. This poor guy was just too plain hurtin' to put up any more fight. If animals had sentiment, however, Nick would'a bet his fat grey tabby that the mutt was just waiting for help to come. The dog whined a little as he stepped close, and then laid down its head, its tail limp in defeat.

Poor critter had given all it had in the fight.

"Kay, Chomper, let's see what's so guldarned important to protect," Nick murmured, skirting around the retriever and easing open the door. He kept his hands loose on his rifle, peering inside.

A brush against his leg told him that Chowhound had followed. Aaand his calves were in perfect range of red-ringed fangs. "Nice doggy," Nick whispered, his hands clamming up as he stepped inside, holding the door lest it slap back against the poochie's flanks. Rabies really was a bad way to go down.

Whining, the drooping labrador slunk past him, padding intently towards the shadowed wall partition, where glass trailed further into the lounge. Nick braced the rifle loosely against his cheek, taking his time to absorb the scene of impact. The door was intact; no forced locks or busted panes. Probably not a high threat this far outta the city, or else this vic figured he could handle a petty burglary. Scuff marks and scratches in the polished floor indicated that Snoopy had taken charge pretty quick. Bullet indented in the wall was at the right angle to shatter his foreleg. A possible hook to the noggin and he'd a'been dreaming about car chases for a couple minutes at least.

(Garsh, he should'a been a veterinarian. Farmers didn't care diddly-squat about ugly mugs looking down their horses' throats.)

Kitchen looked clear when Nick glanced inside, so that meant the fight had been contained to the main living quarters. Although a closer look had him raising his eyebrows. Somehow a nice Walther had found its way into an immaculately shiny sink. Either some nut had a peculiar way of cleaning his firearms, or the local shinobi had one heck of a kick.

"No retrieval, so you restricted him to the party room," Nick observed, stepping out of the kitchen and flicking off the light switch on his way. No need to waste any more electricity.

Now the sitting area, that was a mess. Shifting furniture had gouged the nice, spangled floors. He could easily imagine two bruisers barreling around in there. No fancy footwork or Queensberry rules in here, no siree. These guys were set to maul each other. The corner of a table was trailing sawdust and a chair had been toppled, snapped off two legs. Slivers of wood were ground into a stained carpet. A few hard knocks had punched through the wall plaster. And there was blood. Puddled and dalloped and streaked across the hardwood, like a child had been playing with Mommy's lipstick.

Wasn't hard to find the stiff after that. Nick cringed in sympathy and lowered his gun. Definite subluxation of the right shoulder, swelling of the trachea, heavy contusions to the arms and face, two inch laceration trailing into the dark hair, potential internal hemorrhaging given the significant dip in the rib cage, likelihood of spinal trauma, and this was just at a glance. Chewtoy had fairly beat the tar out of this kid.

"You made a lotta enemies for a young scrapper," Nick estimated, crouching a few feet from the body. True, it wasn't a snot-nosed teen gracing the floor, but anything younger than forty was precocious and prone to stupid decisions. This kid had seen his fair share. "Wonder who took your number?"

Cause of death was most likely the set of bloody car keys lying in a sticky puddle by the vic's thigh. A lucky stab-and-drag had torn the artery; he'd a'bled to death in minutes. Cyanosis had left his fingers an ugly shade of blue, but rigor mortis hadn't kicked in. Less than two hours on the block; could'a been sooner.

"Bad luck, kiddo," Nick sympathized. He distangled a pair of vinyl gloves from his pocket, donning them carefully before palming vacant, brown eyes shut. With a mumbled apology he patted down the kid's pockets. "Gotta call you in, kay?"

An awkward search turned out a fresh wallet, thickly wadded with big'uns, and a small bag of what looked like salt crystals. Nick groaned. "C'mon, life's worth more than a sniff, buddy!"

Had to be the wrong body, then. Unless this was payee who got bumped off the food chain (unlikely, baseboards were clean enough to peel off for sushi trays), then either there was another victim lolling about, or a couple hooligans thought two-on-one odds would favor their efforts.

"Looks like you picked on the wrong neighborhood," Nick acknowledged, taking a second look at the avulsion in the kid's thigh. "Whoo-ey, that wasn't meat-fingers - brass knuckles looks to be more his type. So where's the third guy?"

Glancing around the calamity of stained rug and toppled furniture, Nick whistled between his teeth and waited for a beat. No doggy. If he wasn't hovering around a ghoulish, gun-toting intruder, odds were he'd limped back to where he belonged: hovering over his master.

"Got a bad feeling about this," Nick said, relatching the safety on his rifle and reaching for his day pack. He fumbled with it as he walked, running the list through his head. Iodine, alcohol pads, bandages, compress dressings and gauze, tape, antibiotic, aloe, sterile needles and thread, Naloxone, WoundSeal, tourniquet, snake venom antidote. Basics, maybe enough to keep blood circulating until the whirlybird arrived. For that, he needed a phone. First things first, he needed to find that dog.

Too many trips over deep water had taught Nick that the first step to finding a lost cause was following the red ribbon trail. Dash it all, this kind of nightmare was supposed to be found amongst sand dunes and tunnels of sun-baked brick. Kids weren't supposed to be afraid of monsters sneaking through the kitchen door.

Leaning against the wall partitioning the hall from the bathroom, Nick twisted on a fresh pair of gloves and sighed. 'Course it would be one of _those_ guys. Knowing he was bleeding out, fighting the inevitable with swollen fists and busted teeth, the brat had managed to at least slow his demise before blood loss and shock had ushered him into the last sunset.

Yeah, he was a military brat all right. Could be marine, or any of the other service branches - hard to tell outta uniform, but the rigid lines of hardship and focus were always the same. Stubborn, dedicated, coarse as a sander's tool, getting under the skin of every soft-hearted marm or civie who crossed his path. What a waste of life.

Liquid brown eyes assailed Nick before the labrador whined, nudging its owner's leg morosely before pillowing its head back on the limp, rust-sodden lap. Sheist, and he thought he hated dogs up till now.

"Easy, doggy," Nick hushed, shuffling forward and brushing down the dog's matted ears. "I'm just gonna take a look at him, all right? Don't nip me, or we're gonna have words about rabies and drastic measures, and somethin' tells me the local kin won't look kindly on buryin' a man and his dog together."

The chomper stayed put, only voicing soft, pitiful whistles of uncertainty as Nick reached over to cup the man's carotid artery. Just outta habit. There was enough blood on the tiles to assume that…..

"Well, would'ja lookie there," Nick said, whistling low as he pressed gently into clammy skin. Pulse was a tad bradycardiac, but the brat was fit, so it was probably pumping faster than normal. Definitely time to summon backup.

"Tell me you got a phone," Nick pleaded, turning over hands that were split-knuckled and dashed with red paint. Sure enough, the marine had thought it through and tried to dial out before he went comatose. Splinters of glass in his fingers and crusted seals on a pulverized screen testified the futility of desperate efforts. Gritting his teeth, Nick whispered heathen blasphemies. So bloody close!

Fine. No landline, no perpetrator blower, no problem. Service carriers looked the same; he'd just borrow the chip a moment and let the brat shoulder the bill as a personal gesture of "thanks for bringing in the cavalry instead of attempting impromptu surgery."

Seizing the phone, he braced it under his shoe, snickering in morbid satisfaction as the frame crackled under the pressure. Wasn't too many days he could take pleasure in mauling an upscale piece of equipment. A few slivers jabbed his thumb before the piece snapped in half, showering the tiles with glass and mutilated plastic. There, sheltered in the busted battery compartment, was the gleaming bit of gold that promised wifi and data and emergency cell service.

"Probably didn't need to actually break the phone for that," Nick mentioned, unapologetic for the carnage. "You'll thank me later for saving your dang hide."

Sliding the chip into his own prehistoric flipper, he dialed briskly and shifted to the victim's other side. "Yeah, I got a break-in and assault off Piikoi Street. Two bodies, one breather. Looks like we got…." he felt along the body carefully, not liking what he found. "Possible cervical and spinal contusions, couple fractured ribs, deep bruising in the abdomen, feels rigid… hey, y'know what, forget the protocol, you get a chopper here stat. I'm gonna try to keep this guy alive.… I'm hanging up, you want the location, you track the dang phone!"

Chucking the squawking receiver across the hall, he grumbled under his breath and dumped his kit, grabbing for bags of hydrophilic polymer and compresses. "Shock, external and internal bleeding, how the heck are you still alive?"

Warmth, fluids, elevation. He didn't pack saline in the Toyota, but the house had a linen closet and a bathroom with an internal heat gage. He left his gear long enough to grab a heavy looking quilt. Elevation would come soon enough when the travois was hovering under a coppadopper. Until then, he wasn't budging the brat's spine.

"C'mon, show me some life signs," Nick rambled, dialing the thermostat to the highest setting before peeling bloody toilet paper out of the seeping puncture wound. He grimaced at the make-do doctoring, mumbling about contaminated particles of soggy paper, and sloshed it clean with a bottle of witch hazel from the bathroom cabinet before packing fresh gauze into the wound and taping it. "Your dog's being pesky enough; seems to think you're coming out of this with bright eyes and a sucker punch tale for the night clubs."

Swelling in the face might temporarily impede vision, but the jaw felt intact. No whistling in the trachea, or rattling in the lungs, and wheezing was minimal. All good signs.

"In my inexpert opinion, you'll make it with a busted leg and a sling," Nick estimated, briskly stabilizing the crooked wrist. There was a purpling imprint on flesh that set his blood ablaze. Somewhere in the house the cops would find a spanner wrench with prints of a dirty no-gooder on the handle.

"We gotta get you to a hospital, man," he whispered, pressing the back of his gloved hand against feverish skin, gaging the heat that was already stripping the body of moisture and energy.

The brat shifted under his hand. A twitch of discomfort, a breathless moan. "Jo..."

"Not her," Nick answered, hoping that the girlfriend or mother or sister had better instincts than to wind a belt around a major artery and hope for the best. "Could'a lost a leg if you'd had the strength to bind that any closer, buddy. Didn't your CO teach you anything about front line response? Nevermind, kids these days don't listen to nothin'. Just don't die while you're getting airlifted - I hate wasting my time."

There were wood slivers jutting a few centimeters down from the break. So that explained how the chair was damaged, at least. Dadburned, tarnated, thrice bedeviled vermin. Doggy chow was too good for the likes'a them.

"For what, a couple hundred dollars for dope?" Nick ranted. "Nah, someone wrote you up, Brat. Burglars don't pull a gun and then beat the local pooch over the head before pulverizing the homeowner. They'd a'sprung the safe and then drummed you with a few iron bolts. This here was personal. If not for Lassie here the cops'd be picking tooth shards and bits of bone out of a pulped meat sack. Using dental records and marrow for identification records. Don't think I haven't seen a crowbar fest afore."

Slits of murky, watering grey-blue latched onto him briefly, and the same breathless supplication was uttered before swollen eyelids slid closed. Agitatedly Nick shook his head. "I ain't your friend, but dadgummit call me Sister Josephine if it keeps you entertained. If you laugh and puncture a lung, though, that's all on you."

He kept up the litany of balderdash, droning louder every time the brat twitched or coughed, and sagged in relief when he heard the whirl of blades above the heater blast. He'd broken every other rule of first response, contaminated a crime scene, and possibly jeopardized his own patient, but the brat was still drawing shallow breaths and the high spots of color had returned to his cheeks, fever enough to pass him off as a living being.

One crooked, bruising hand spasmed out to brush against the dog's ears, eliciting the smallest of whimpers from the mutt before boner and brat conked out for good. Seconds later Nick himself was batted aside, thrust into the adjoining hall as the good ol' "professionals" huddled together to peel apart and criticize his handiwork. Stretchers and braces and clean, starchy sheets were bundled around the vic' who was more bruises than brawn, toting him to the waiting chopper while a second set of EMT's prattled over the dog.

"Someone should come back for him," the dainty duchess in scrubs reassured Nick, familiar enough with his resume that she didn't call 911 the moment she saw his ugly maw in the same room as the injured party. "You should've said there was a veterinary emergency as well."

"Psh, two dandies in the daisy crop and one flying the low current? With those odds, who cares about a lousy mutt?" Nick scoffed. The EMT's face twisted into something between disbelief and unhappiness, as if some low-life mucker had announced that red pandas deserved extinction. Backtracking under the onslaught, Nick shrugged awkwardly and offered, "My truck's outside. I'll make sure he gets to a vet."

"The police will want to question you," the EMT warned him. "You can't leave the premises."

"The heck are they waiting for, then? Crime took place two hours ago!" Nick tramped to the linen cabinet, yanking out a clean wool blanket and a cushion. "Dog's coming with me. Coppers want to conduct a little questionnaire, they know where to find me."

Sweeping past the squabbling waif, Nick lowered the blanket over Moocher and gently lifted the dog, cradling it like the kiddo with a broken arm they'd found in that one city off record where they weren't supposed to be. Kiddo got home safe, no tears, no permanent scarring, and Poochie here would make it, too.

"I got ya, buddy," Nick murmured, stepping over bloody drag marks as distant sirens whined. "Gonna get you to a hospital, you and that stubborn duck are both gonna be fine."

Any snarly young streetfighter who could take on a monkey wrench and a walther and still clear the horizon was gonna be hard pressed to jump the bomber. He'd make it. Stubborn, knuckle-headed kid. Yeah, he'd be fine. And when he skirted free of hospital security, he'd be looking for his dog. Nick had garnered enough shot records for his cats to warrant a first-in-line basis for any emergency critter he pulled out of a farm shed. Soon enough both vic's would be walking around dandy.

Not a bad day's run for the local island banshee.

* * *

He thought he might get a nice card from the animal clinic, at least. Occasionally the drop-off of mangy kittens he'd picked out of street buckets before would result in a picture or two of beaming children holding fluffy, unrecognizably clean and satisfied felis domistica. Least a man could do for lifesaving efforts and the ensuing interrogation by three different cops and a bloody detective was scrawl out a penciled _Thank You_ on a sticky note. But no, meddle with the breeding ground for a criminal investigation and it was handcuffs on a chair with Detective Nutjob quoting misconstrued murder motives to him for three frickin' hours.

"_So what, you, uh, you just randomly waltz into a guy's parlor and pick apart his phone, leave a body next to your truck and you still claim you're not an asset in attempted murder? I don't know about you but it seems oddly convenient that you stumbled on a couple perps linked to embezzlement and drug cartel just as we were getting close to finding their boss. So what, guy like you comes in, eliminates the middle men, and gets caught just as he's fleeing with the drug sniffer?"_

"_Danny, you're not thinking straight." Baldo at least had his head in order, 'cause Nick was fairly scrambled out of his brains with boredom at that point. "EMT's said he was performing rescue treatment. Now why would a murderer go out of his way to revive the victim? Not to mention drop his dog off at the vet's?"_

"_I dunno, maybe he needed Steve alive for questioning. People do crazy things on drugs. Guy had meth on his gloves."_

"_I have an ID badge," Nick said wearily, shifting around as a crick knotted in his right shoulder._

"_Yeah, at your place, in the middle of nowhere," Detective Doom countered. "That's what I'm saying here, your little story doesn't check out. So why don't you explain from the beginning what a night shift nursing assistant was doing driving up Piikoi Street in broad daylight."_

"_Actually, I walked."_

That particular snide comment earned him two unnecessary hours of nagging, a part of his life he'd very much like to scrub out of his brain before he started dreaming about Doohickey Detective barking orders at him right alongside his former CO's. Corrective literalism didn't do one favors in a prison cell.

He weaseled his way out. Eventually. After his prints were assessed and his story about owning twelve cats in a disturbingly sterile farmhouse was confirmed by a sniffling, wheezing cop who had just discovered an allergy to feline dandruff. So yeah, Marine Brat so owed him a thank you card.

He didn't expect a more personal approach.

Six all-nighters passed and the weekend shift brought upon a sour mood, instigated immediately upon setting foot in the vaguely rank, morose corridors of the ICU. Idiots in charge simply didn't have the decent sensitivity to make hourly checks on patients who couldn't comprehend their own bodily functions. He'd once managed an entire platoon of dying war heroes, digging out shrapnel by hand and cleaning vomit out of uniforms. Most of them succumbed to infection before medical supplies arrived, but they still died with more dignity than some of these poor souls. Modern health care was a joke. Understaffed, underappreciated, underpaid... sometimes good people just burned out and turned in their badges, if they weren't trounced and sent packing by the bullies.

He was changing out saline bags in the 400 hall when Doctor Mickey Moleface (okay so it was Michaels... not like he earned his title on the night patrol) came huffing into the room, wringing his hands in that awkward, "I'm sorry I breathed in your presence" manner exhibited by privates when the inspection revealed shoddy, half-mitered corners. Immediately on his guard, Nick raised one cool eyebrow and deliberately took his time finishing the IV line. He limped to the sink, stripping off his gloves along the way, warily eyeing the shuffling doctor.

"If you got somethin' to say, spill it," he said finally, before the cloud of awkwardness could burst in a shower of nonsensical babbling. "You want me outta here? That's what it's taking you so long to spout? You'll have to wait till the sixers get in, or the health department will write up the whole dang corporation for insufficient staffing."

"Ah, actually, it's not exactly that... I mean we want you to feel comfortable, that is, we're honored of course by your assistance when we're struggling with staffing, not that we wouldn't appreciate your hard work if we were fully operational..."

Egad, stammering and blushing and pathetically attempting to bolster his ego... something had set off the narcissist's psych.

"Okaaay." Meticulously drying the ridged, nailless fingertips of his right hand, Nick crumpled the wad of paper and tossed it into the waste bin, checking his watch as the doctor fumbled to communicate. "So if I'm not fired, I'm twelve minutes late already to check on 406. He's on a two-hour schedule, and the body sticks to a routine, y'know."

Flapping his hands in defeat, Michaels eeked out, "Room 204 has requested you. Personally. You'll find his chart on the door, I didn't make the assignment."

Now he was perturbed. Snorting softly, Nick clarified, "You want me. To attend the lower level. With a conscious patient." Did Waianae just freeze over?

The doctor smiled weakly. "Wear a mask?"

* * *

By the time 0200 rounds started, most family members were home, snug in their blankies with snooze alarms set by the hour. Those who stayed overnight were often the most unfortunate; spouses, parents, kids sitting with their elderly parents as pneumonia took the final turn. Some would leave in a haze of relief in a couple days, confident that the worst was past. Others would linger for weeks, day by day, waiting for a positive turn that would never come. Some would make the call tomorrow morning, letting family know that it was over, that Christmas was going to be different from now on.

Nick had seen a few of those folk. Cleaned the bodies after it was over, made sure the hair was gently combed down and the eyes closed, fresh linens laid out and a window opened so the spirit could pass on unhindered. Times of grief like that, no one cared about what the blue mask was holding back. He often got a hug along with the rest of the staff.

Tonight he wasn't walking in on a huddled family gathered around the last memory of their loved one, though it was a near miss. He checked the name on the chart, drew an even breath, and slipped soundlessly into the room, his danskos practically molded to the tiles after two thousand hours of use. There was one occupant in the chair by the overtable, and that was grouchy ol' Detective Downpour himself.

"Steve, your room service is here," the blond pessimist droned, flipping idly through the complimentary newspaper. "You want that milkshake, better request it now. Took 'em two hours to get it over here yesterday."

The lighting was dim, muting bruises and bandages in shadow, but Nick had worked with enough stoic machos to figure out when the body was stiff with pain, and he could whip out a rough estimate from the outline of a cast and a rigid left wing that there was a busted collarbone and a few strained ligaments along with the dislocation and the snapped femur. Should'a caught that himself, but he was in too much of a rush. Novice mistakes.

Still, the brat was conscious, and seemed comprehensive of the fact that someone had just walked into his room. Nick hovered, self-consciously rubbing hand sanitizer between his fingers. He really shouldn't be here. They were filling in his half of the rounds upstairs, and he wasn't familiar with the patients on this unit.

Detective Dolorous looked up with incongruously bland criticism, his eyebrows shooting high. "Wait, you actually do work here? I thought that was just a crazy alabi. I mean, who wraps up a busted shoulder and then mucks around as a wetnurse? How much do they pay you to do that?"

"Danny," came aggrieved sigh from the bed. "Shut up."

Glancing between the patient and the assistant incredulously, blondie pointed at himself and stated, "Oh, you two want a moment alone? Say no more," he insisted, raising a newspaper ink-smudged hand as he rose. "Celia, the pretty one? She mentioned they have a sludge machine serving something that vaguely resembles weak tea on the third floor. No one wants to tell me what's in the creamer packets. 'Scuse me," he said to Nick, nodding amicably as he passed by.

Blinking twice, Nick shrugged to himself, shaking the image away. Wrinkled, collared shirt, dress slacks, loose tie. In Hawaii. Crazies came from everywhere.

"You called for assistance?" he asked, force of habit compelling him to rap gently on the door to announce his presence.

Grey-blue eyes looked almost hazel in the lighting. The dimness didn't help matters; brat was probably squinting to make out half the objects in the room. "Take off the mask," he said softly.

Nick huffed. "Uh, I don't think you want me to do that."

"Why?" the brat scoffed, still straining himself unnecessarily to account for every shuffled kleenex box and expired lunch menu in his living space. Yeah, Nick was familiar with control issues. "You contagious or something?"

Now that was funny. Nick chuckled, spreading out his right hand. "See, I'm the walking advertisement for plastic surgery "Before" boards, haven't seen the "After" options yet. I'd rather not be carded for indecent exposure while patients are trying to hold down their breakfast."

Steve-O seemed unnamused. "Take it off," he said, all six-foot-odd of 'I outrank your old man respect me.' Marine brats. Give'em a badge above private and they thought the world answered to 'em.

Well, technical sergeants knew a thing or two about snarky, stubborn civilians, and Nick no longer answered to a CO. "Bad idea, Zoomie," he said, idling into the room to make sure the cath tube wasn't trailing out of the concealment bag. That'd be embarrassing for patient and family alike. "Halloween was two weeks ago, y'know."

Marine brat screwed his face up, maybe trying to sort out dates or time or something (a lot of that was lost in a head clout), but what he blurted out was, "Zoo - Zoomie? I'm in the _Navy._"

"Huh." Nick's lips flattened in awkward pause. "Not quite as soft and squeemish as I imagined."

He got the death look for his troubles. "Yeah, I'd say the same for the Air Force."

"Well, now that we equally despise one another, allow me to introduce myself: Technical Sergeant Nick Valken, prior, of course, I'm wearing my walking shoes now."

_**Navy**_ brat huffed. "Lieutenant Commander Steven McGarrett. Previously, now with the Hawaii Five-O task force."

Oh, he did manage to tangle himself in the most exceptional blunders. "With the guy who just left the room," Nick guessed, queasily jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.

"Uh-huh."

"So he's that kind of partner." Chuckling between his teeth, Nick adjusted the shades to reflect the traffic glare without cutting off McNavy's view.

"You gonna take that mask off now?"

"Hm, I'm gonna marvel that you're making coherent demands," Nick distracted, eyeing the brat's wristband. What kinda drugs did they have him on, 'cause it sounded like he'd missed a couple doses. "Thought you might'a lost a few teeth with that shadow, but it looks like they just bruised it."

"So it was you." Steady eyes held him in judgment for playing with a man's psych, but he was so not doing the gushy eternal gratitude drama just for stumbling on a smelly corpse.

"I'm guessing you ditched the IV." Nick scowled at the needle that had been strategically removed and left taped lest Nagging Danny take notice. "You ever hear of the double motive purposes of driplines, like hydration, and antibiotics, and shock treatment?"

"Why do they have you here?" Cross injustice had slipped into Orca Boy's tone. Kinda like Emmy's sass when she demanded why he'd settled for a grunt shift. Honestly, did everyone on this side of the island expect military careers to end with honors and a doctorate?

"Look, I dunno about you, but I'd sooner chuck ice onto the cafeteria linoleum and call suit than let some doofus with a junior high certificate play doctor in my surgery," Nick said tartly. "I just barely managed to get my CNA certificate without a diploma, all right? Figure I'm pretty lucky at that."

"You… wait, you never even graduated?"

Nick rolled his eyes. Brawny, buff and brain-dead. Navy brats thought they had life figured out just 'cause the academy offered GED's.

"They said you were a professional," McGraveness continued to protest. "You manned an entire platoon - you were the best surgeon before you got landed on this sideshow."

"Correction, I was the _only_ surgeon," Nick said with bitter grandeur. Well, if he had one thing to boast about, it was his own exquisite insufficiency. "We toured soon after boot camp. Second Lieutenant pulled me in as his personal bloodstopper. I read a couple books on medical jargon and mostly helped him mop up muck and hold people down. Then he got himself shot up and we were stuck for three months with just me and a textbook on medical-surgical nursing. So yeah, I learned how to slush someone's guts back inside them and knot an incision. That doesn't mean they're gonna put me in the OR theater without a certificate. Not to mention with these," he emphasized, holding up his mangled hands. "Can't fix this problem with a face lift."

Dadgummit it, the guy didn't even look fazed. Maybe the drugs had been working after all. "So you're gonna take the mask off now, right?"

Growling euphemisms under his breath, Nick hooked his fingers under the surgical mask straps and flicked it off. He'd learned to stop cringing at this point, though not because the picture was any prettier. He knew what a mirror was for. Once a guy was down one and a half eyebrows, three quarters of an ear, and sporting a funky-shaped nose, he only bothered making sure his hair was decently combed. Waving his hands out in a vague 'Ta-Da,' Nick invited the barrage of weak apologies for his gastly fate.

"You're saying that's why they won't give you a real job," Lieutenant Commander Oblivious stated. "Isn't that discrimination?"

Nick blinked once. Twice. Three times to pull together his nerve. "You really did get your brain sloshed with seawater." He waggled the fingers of his right hand, egging the doofus to understand. "Can't guarantee a proper incision with these."

"Your hands are perfectly steady, don't give me that bull."

Well, _Navy _Know-it-All, some people simply didn't share that thread of rainbow-riffic optimism. "Yeah, well some people don't need to get a degree to find fulfilment," Nick grumbled, _doing his job_ by making sure the cath bag was empty and the liquid inside wasn't overtly tinted by rust. Bruised kidneys was one thing, internal bleeding could be trouble.

Ah, the joys one felt at being on the receiving end of a murder threat, without a single syllable being passed between them. A little casual humiliation (all in the good name of patient care) tended to shut up the chatty zooms.

It appeared that Navy brats were made of sterner stuff. "Cassie says you hate your job," McGator accused when Nick finished washing his hands. "Why are you still here?"

Oh please, could a man be any more insulting? Rolling his eyes, Nick answered with frank honesty, "What, you see me getting a shoe-in for the children's department? People freak out a little when the nurse looks uglier than bulldozed roadkill. No one's out to hire the Mo'o this time of year."

"That what the staff tells you?" Tightlipped offense sharpened into little barbs of poignant altruism. He hated that kind of CO. "Cassie seems to think differently. In fact, I've talked to three of the staff in the last day and they all spoke highly of you. Said you're meticulous with your work; that you won't accept a half shod job. You treat people right around here."

"Yeah, well most of us do," Nick mumbled, slapping a bleach wipe onto the overtable and scrubbing just 'cause he was still here and conversing with a patient without an agenda really wasn't built into his allotted time-frame. "You get one bad egg though, and that changes the rules for everyone."

Hard to budge a brick wall if everyone tagged along with a bucket of fresh cement. Distrimination, exploitation, neglect, larceny... the lines got fudged after a while, until the head supervisors threw up their hands 'cause they kept talking and couldn't do nothin' to alter the nosedive. Lot of good people walked out within a year just 'cause they felt helpless to do the right thing.

"So why don't you go somewhere else?" stubborn sonofaseacaptain prodded him again. "You could do more than this."

Checking his watch, Nick shook his head. 0200 rounds would be completed by now; he was needed on his floor. No patient could monopolize him just for a therapy session. "Look Squid, it's not just this joint. People are the same all over, 'kay? If I saw me I'd be creeped out, so I'm not resenting anyone's instinctive response. You see something strange you sceer off - and don't give me those moody eyes, I'm no one's pity show. I know what I look like and I got a good job, and I'm happy for that. So if we're done here, I got about twenty people upstairs waiting for me to get back to work. Nice meeting you, Commander."

"Hey, Sargeant."

Nick spun on his heel in the doorway, fingers loosely closed into fists. He had work to do, dermit!

Sir McGallahad was three and a half broken limbs of pure, fervent sobriety as he stated, "You need a transition out of this place, you give them my name. You're wasting away in here."

The gall of some people. "Yeah, sure. Peace out," Nick stated, raising two fingers in the Americanized symbol of unity and harmony. He might have done it backwards. Gillboy probably wouldn't pick up on that.

Hurrying back to the elevator, danksos squeaking slightly under the brisk pace, Nick didn't realize until Detective Disparagement took one look and halted, his very calm face revealing nothing while coffee sloshed over his hand, that he'd never replaced the mask after storming out of Serendipity Steve's room. Baring his teeth in a sneer, he swept past the starch-shirted haole and took the staircase instead.

Hang the third-shift incentive, he was done with this joint.

* * *

Wednesday morning. Seventy-two degrees at 10:40, guaranteed to sizzle a rat's feet on the blacktop by late afternoon. (Millie would like that idea, if she wasn't so snippety particular about her vittles. No siree, it was only canned tuna and wet mash for this princess. Small wonder her liver was giving out at the prime age of nine.)

"Stay in the car, Sweetie," Nick instructed, ruffling the fat tabby's ears as he switched off the engine. "You're my witness this round. No more bodies in the trunk."

He stepped out of the car and immediately leaned against the open door with an aggrieved sigh. Dadburnit, he couldn't leave a komodo dragon in the car with this kind of heat.

"That's it, we're movin' to the Dells next year," Nick grumbled, ducking into the car to tuck a yowling roll of fluff and flab under his arm. "We'll sell the bloody fields to some wealthy baron. You can eat gold finches and cardinals and I'll get a new car. Everybody wins."

Millie loudly expressed her displeasure with the idea, settling into the unwanted hold with a discomfited humph. Balancing the cat in one arm, Nick pocketed his keys and grabbed for the store door handle, ruefully noting that he hadn't locked the truck. Ah, let'em have it. Whoever stole the greasy ol' clanker would save him the inconvenience of having it towed one day. He might even be able to haggle a spare tire off the insurance compensation.

As he passed the checkout desk the cashier gave an uncomfortable squeak. "Sir, all pets are required to be kept on a leash or in a - "

"Ah, stuff it, shoestring," Nick drawled, giving the sneaker-clad upstart a full view of his pockmarked grin. Oh, how the new kids trembled. "Go yammer to Auntie - she knows me."

The manager, an able bodied woman named Anuhea, didn't even glance up from the barcode on a bag of parrot chow. "Ignore the haole, he's a regular."

"Thanks, Auntie," Nick said, giving the matron a merry wink. Ever since he'd popped in alone one dismal Christmas Eve and been dragged him to the fam's next door for dinner, he'd counted this stop as one more heavenly way station where he could waltz about normally without ladling out three ID's and a reference. (All right, so he was exaggerating. Slightly. Shopping was hazardous when the police kept peeking in and the clerks chattered nervously, one hand hovering over the distress button.) Shaking his head, Nick put the bitter taste out of his mind, focusing on white shelves filled with curios for pampered pets. He scratched the ruff of Millie's neck until she drooped lower, grudgingly accepting the adventure.

"Not too long here, Princess. Just need the canned carcinogens you favor and a bucket of flea-begone." Hairballs he could tolerate. Eensy black bugs sucking his lifeblood? This was first-world territory; he could afford the deterrent.

A few other unnecessary trinkets found their way into the plastic pink litter bucket he toed down the isles. Salmon paste-filled kitty treats, steel fur brusher, sensitive shampoo for the fluffy maine coon with eczema, new collar and bell for the roaming ginger (Geronimo went through at least a collar per month, pesky tree branches), litter box deodorizer, fresh scoop, claw trimmers for the in-house kittens, and six boxes of flea meds. Reconsidering the prospect of a lousy summer, Nick shrugged and cleaned out the rack. Any more midnight scratching and he'd be wearing a flea collar himself. Whoever coined tropical islands as the ideal paradise had clearly never experienced a luxurious negative-fifty-degree frost that ruthlessly slaughtered all pests save the hobo spiders.

He was just slinging his impromptu shopping basket onto the counter when irrepressible yelping thundered in the entrance. A blur of golden energy crashed into the quiet store, throwing the unfortunate leash handler off his running shoes and dragging him inside. Millie exploded in a fit of scrabbling yowls, scouring skin and counter with three centimeter needles before vanishing behind the bird care isle. Howling obscenities from fifty states, Nick pressed his hands over bloody slashes, infection and bloodborne pathogens raging foremost in his panic even as he hollered for his cat.

Little sneaker-girl fainted dead away at the sight of blood.

"Millie, you tarnated animal!" Nick ranged, stripping his coat off to press over the deepest scratches. "So help me I'll slice off your hide and use it as a doormat, wipe my boots on it every mudfall. Git over here you bedeviled varmint!"

He would have cussed longer, probably used some words that would've made his granny sprout up and beat him over the head with her golden harp, but a tumble of slobbery joy bounded into him, plastering him with the odor of wet, dank fur and shrimpy saliva.

"Whoah, Eddie!" Running-Shoes exclaimed, launching up from his graceless face-plant to haul back his mangy hound. "Easy, boy! Down, I said down."

Sweet saranora, did he need further reason to hate dogs? Gratefully accepting a damp warm towel from Auntie, and mentally reviewing when he'd last contemplated a rabies vaccination, Nick breathed in deeply through his nose and planted his feet, turning a surly glare on the sole perpetrator of his dismal day.

Running-Shoes looked fairly gobsmacked with shock. Nick felt equal parts queasy and caught out, finally slouching away with a groan. "Galdurnit, I thought for sure there'd be one decent hooligan who'd keep you in cast at least until New Years."

Navy Brat was still gawking like a zoomie who'd been meted out for latrine duty and handed a toothbrush. Eddie McMooch, has on the other hand, continued to pant and gaze like he'd discovered the patron saint of house calls. Darn furball.

"It's only a little scratch," Auntie said, interrupting the awkward moment as she harrumphed, whipped the soiled towel away from Nick's lacerated arms, and slapped him over the shoulder for expecting mollycoddling. Sheist, he loved that woman.

"So you... I thought..." McGawker twitched a hand and Nick glowered, daring him to pantomime a mask. The navy brat seamlessly saved his hide by exclaiming, "You quit?"

Ah, the good ol' charm of youth, blustering on about "seeing things through to the end" and "when the going gets tough" and blah blah insensitive "how could you ever stop" blather. Nick graced the comment with a derogatory snort, leaning idly on the scarred countertop. "Correction, I walked out. Threw in the towel. Wrote my own pink slip. Gave my last two cents. Hit myself with the door on the way out."

More accurately stated, he might have blown his top at Doctor Mickey and called him every alphabetical euphemism from the dictionaries of Midwestern Slang, Polynesian and Urdu, and slipped a call to the omnibudsman about a couple of hall supervisors who spend two quarters of their shift twiddling on their phones and trying to trade off the room numbers they hated. So yeah, he'd burned his bridges. Shattered them. Run an express diesel through the supports. Dropped a double payload. Doused them with kerosene before lighting a couple hand grenades. The blaze was beautiful, really, he just figured he'd never list the facility on his resume.

"But why?" McGetOverIt pressed, looking more and more like someone had presented his favorite niece with a squashed birthday cake. "You're there six months and you said you'd finally found fulfillment, and you didn't even let the families know that you were leaving. You wanna know how many of the staff came to my room saying I'd driven you off?"

Well that was laughable - if anything it was Danny Droopface who seemed liable to make a wetnurse apply for sanctuary in Canada - but the connotations were too sobering for humor. He really hadn't been expected to be missed.

"What happens now, you just give in?" Navy Boots prompted. "Go home, try to forget you made a difference in someone's life?"

Nick gritted his teeth, reminding himself that this was technically his patient not too long ago and the thickhead really didn't need a smack in the mouth when he was still supposed to be recuperating at home. Idiot kids always had to peel off the casts a week early.

"I don't think that deserves an answer, mon commander," Nick snapped, beckoning for the tab on his pink crate of feline frivolities. "But since I'm feeling particularly surly and aim to tell someone off before I stalk outta this catnip factory, I'll let you in on a little secret. A man who surfs the wave grabs more eyes than the doofus that swims through it. I sailed on, made some papermice realign their systems, and you got a better hospital. Landed myself a quaint little niche in the back of a truck with IV lines and defibrillators, as a matter of fact. More action, less hype over trailing blankets. You with me?"

The gears in this seagull's brain sloshed faster than most. He looked at Nick with appraisement, and no small amount of smugness, like the little cheat had something to do with the abrupt twist of circumstance. "Pursuing MD?"

"As in mad doctor, village shaman, voodoo specialist, sure, why not?" Nick quipped, snagging his bag and laying out an extra hundred as one of the clerks came 'round with a carrier containing a spluttering grey tabby. "Someone's gotta keep the seagulls from jumping rooftops right after woodchip extractions."

Sealface looked properly sheepish as he followed Nick to the parking lot, nonchalantly flexing his hand like the wrist bones still ached. Thrice-durned fool, ought to be exercising the sling on occasion, not loping around with a sixty-pound bulldozer.

"You know, we could use a medic on the team," McOptimist said offhandedly, shifting the weight off his unsteady leg. "Once you finish your degree there's nothing stopping you. You could be anything."

Nick shrugged, letting the honor roll over his shoulders like the balm of a warm sunset, or a summer tailwind. "Nah, I got a few avenues to scout out yet. My horizon's open."

He flexed his hands, feeling just dang fine. He'd saved a life on that sweltering afternoon when he thought he'd lost all purpose. Pushed the spirit back into an obstinate, respectable kid. Who could muck around listening for police scanners after a high like that? There were hundreds more just like himself on this island of paradise, struggling for purpose and meaning. Reaching for the needle or the iron to finally quiet the preying vice of insufficiency. Silently praying that someone would intervene before the last candle guttered into silence.

In the back of an ambulance, no one cared about the face of their savior. Just the touch of friendship. A soft voice. One more chance to see the sunrise.

He'd be there for them at just the right time.


End file.
